Confidential
by Quixotic Operator
Summary: A series of non-linear oneshot drabbles focusing on two characters who spoke far too little and the relationship the writer likes to imagine is between them. Said writer is way too emotionally invested in this ship. Pairing: Ishiro Serizawa/Vivienne Graham; rating may fluctuate by entry.
1. The Meeting

"Hello, good evening."

In just a few minutes that is what Dr. Ishiro Serizawa will say. Preplanned. Professional. Rehearsed. At the very least, even if they are nerve-wracking_-all eyes on him, all__** very important **__eyes, that stare right through the façade of cool calmness and see those wracked nerves firing, he knows they do_-the monthly meetings with MONARCH authorities are something familiar.

He checks his wristwatch. 7:20. Vivienne should be here by now, but she's not. His right foot taps almost involuntarily against the floor.

The Doctor shuffles his papers, adjusts his glasses; coughs. The room is empty, but he will see the door crack open, and the officials will pile in soon after. They will talk about allocation of funds, progress of research, benefit to humanity; there will be faces poking up from behind stacks of file forms. Serizawa will be courteous, respectful, the epitome of a good host, even as he hides behind the lies of reports falsified for the sake of his specimen's long-term wellbeing. Even with his being out-of-place in his own facility.

When did he start thinking that way? Was it after Janjira? No, he remembers it from long before that. With a shake of the head, he tries to push the thought out of mind; can't.

The door, then, does its scheduled creaking, and the thought is forcibly banished by unspoken command. Serizawa turns, with manufactured alertness, toward the oncoming herd.

7:25. They are early, he notes. Vivienne is still not here. He worries.

If there were public witnesses to the meetings, they might say the congregation of suited men and women with their logo-printed suitcases and hushed voices looked shady. They would be right. But Serizawa doesn't like to think of _himself _as being shady, and it is doubtful his associates find any more pleasure in doing so than he, so he chooses to regard them as well-to-do individuals and hopes they do the same for him.

They sit down.

Serizawa sits down as well; coughs again. Feels the million mugs of coffee slowly rotting what's left of his tired brain. Feels the caffeine-induced dizziness setting in.

But that's not the caffeine, is it?

No, it's not the caffeine. The Good Doctor-he's afraid. Afraid because Vivienne _still _isn't here (at 7:27), afraid because nearly everyone else _is _(and with them their eyes), afraid because what if he says something wrong? What if he missed critical data, what if he forgot to catalog a specimen, what if there is a hole in his work that he didn't notice (not with every time he's pored over it)? What if they notice the light coffee stain on his pants leg? What-if what-if what-if—

This, for him, is fight-or-flight. He wants _so badly _to choose flight but _fighting, _that's what got him here in the first place and he can't, _**won't **_stop now-he straightens his shirt, straightens the papers, straightens his mind, because that is how he **fights**. A decision is made then, as has been made many times before, for the Doctor (still in Vivienne's absence) to embrace the adrenaline. To try. To hold open arms to the way his stomach flips, twisting itself into knots. To accept the way his heart beats to bruise lungs and shatter ribs. To swallow the cold lump of fear in his throat that sucks away at him like a leech.

Yes, he says to himself, he can do this. He's done this.

And then, at long last, Vivienne is here. She walks through the door in strides longer than her legs should allow, ponytail bouncing along behind her, flopping onto her neck when she sits adjacent to him. She leans over, speaks breathy words into his ear.

"So sorry," she says. "There was something with the files, and I had to take care of it-"

He nods. After all, it isn't like she had come in late; and his breath is already coming deeper, more regular. Now he has a crutch to lean on, if the need arises.

7:29.

And he reaches out, shakes hands. Talks.

"Hello, good evening." Just as planned. Just as the play-by-play dictates. This is good. Vivienne smiles at him. This is fine.

He's climbed this ladder. He's taken hold of the rungs and pulled with every ounce of strength he's got-_even if he so frequently thinks he'll slip and fall and plummet to an untimely demise and-_and now he is here, and he is high-ranking, and people respect him. People respect him. He is here and he is respected and he _**prides **_himself on that _**verifiable fact.**_

So he leans back in his seat.

7:30. The meeting begins.


	2. Sleepless

Serizawa doesn't remember having been so tired in a long while. That's saying something, considering his nigh-constant battling with exhaustion, but today it is as though someone has stuck him in some otherworldly vacuum and manually sucked out every last ounce of energy he had left.

Too bad he's no desire to sleep.

Maybe his eyes might be falling heavy-lidded and dulled by fatigue, but he is hard set on keeping them open because there is Vivienne, and she is talking to him.

"I hope they consider granting us more time for that," he'd said once, in reference to talking (to _being) _with her; here that time is, though not "granted" by anybody and instead crammed into the schedule, painted with unsteady hands over allotted resting hours. Here and now is Vivienne, talking to him about the organs of kaiju and their abnormal cellular regeneration abilities; the theoretical workings of the theoretical anti-gravitational field (all theoretical, of course); maybe a few other, more personal topics besides.

Stay awake, dammit.

She must see his weariness (who wouldn't) because her face is soon riddled with concern. She brings a hand to touch his shoulder-he likes the feel of that hand on his shoulder, likes the look of concern on her face, but doesn't say so on account of the way his throat constricts around the words when he tries. It would be horribly rude, wouldn't it? Saying that.

"You really should go to bed," she says, drawing closer. She gives him a sort of guilty half-smile that reads she feels terribly for keeping them both awake, or wants to. "You look awful."

He does, doesn't he? He does look awful, but he's no intent to go into that.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Her voice holds a hint of accusation in it that on anyone else would incite unease, but with Vivienne only makes him laugh.

"Yes." His eyes smile.

She moves even closer until their noses almost touch. Her face turns gravely serious; she shoots him the commanding expression she so often uses to frighten interns into submission (though they both know it won't it work on him).

"Are you _sure?__" _she repeats.

"**Yes****,**" he says, sternly, putting on a false holier-than-thou air but soon enough dissolving into barely-stifled chuckles.

She falls back onto her pillow. The concession is given: "All right." He turns away in the direction of the bedroom door. A warm smile lights his tired face as he rubs his arms with their opposite hands.

"Thank you." What is he thanking her for? Maybe everything.

They keep talking. Vivienne segues into something about the nuclear properties of Gojira's blood and how _fascinating _it is that the cardiovascular system should function as its own nuclear reactor; small, casually-spoken things that by now both are plenty familiar with but find simple pleasure in discussing.

...

"Ishiro. Ishiro?" sounds Vivienne's voice, and he discovers he's dozed off mid-sentence, snaps back into reality with a soft grunt and a "hm?"

She sighs. "Look, you don't have to stay awake for this."

He sighs, too, because he does. Right now he wants more than anything to stay awake for this. This is **_important. _**All that comes out is a quiet "sorry"; he shuffles, awkwardly glancing between her and his own palms. He is about to say something more, wants to say something more, but is cut off as suddenly _t__heir lips are pressed together and his breath hitches, catches, heart stirred to thrash wildly inside and_he shudders leans in kisses back.

They part.

Her expression is unreadable; it could be anywhere from embarrassed to flustered to accomplished, but when she says "don't be" she is genuine.

"Thank you," he says, for the second time. "I won't." Not that it's as simple as a few words in passing. He's certainly a sorry sight to look at, at the very least.

With a pleased look, she reclines again, and he is left to his thoughts.

Should he? He twiddles his thumbs, swallows phlegmy apprehension-leans over, looks her in the eyes, and this time he is the one to kiss her, boldly ignoring the protest of his rational mind and letting himself press into her without fear, because she wraps her arms around him and like this he feels so much safer.

She breaks the kiss after a minute. Stares at and into him. He returns it, the eye contact welcoming instead of fear-inducing. His breath comes just a little shallower as hands come to cup his face; more smiling, then, from both sides.

The clock reads 1:05. That seems significant somehow. The Doctor's willing to bet he's never grinned so earnestly at 1:05 before.

A warmth blossoms in his chest, spreads to his belly and below. He ignores it. It's not the time for that. Is it?

A peck is planted on his collarbone. Perhaps it can be? Perhaps they can make time for _this_, even if he is only semi-conscious as he holds her close, close enough that she might hear the gears turning in his head as he contemplates himself and time and how little there is and how desperately he wishes sleep was optional because he is _**feeling **_things right now-that, to him, seems much more pressing an issue.

Then the hands move down to his chest, lightly nudging him away. Reluctantly, he concedes.

"Go to sleep," she says, giggling. Grabbing his hand with hers and interlocking fingers, stroking the backside of his with her thumb. The warmth persists, and it's comforting as he curls under the bedsheets.

Sleep is good. Necessary. For work-for work which is hardly four hours away by now and _damn _it's late! What had he been thinking in staying up this long-talking could wait until after break-

He is well aware of his own thought processes. He normally is, being a logically-minded person, and his logical mind had thought it would be worth forgoing logic for the sake of spending time with the woman kind enough to want to do so. The one who fosters that warmth he loves so much.

His hand is still in hers; her head nestled under his chin; therefore, it was worth it.

The clock turns to 1:10.

"Love you," Vivienne whispers, breath on his neck.

"Love you," Serizawa responds, after a moment of deliberation because the words catch and want to be swallowed before they can leap out and leave him vulnerable. Even so, they leave a good taste in his mouth.

"Good night." Her eyes are already closing as she says it.

"Good night." So are his.

He does not sleep that night.


End file.
